Soon, it became obvious that Gibson was having a hard time staying on his feet. It was clear from the sign that Gibson would fall, crawl for a few feet, then get up and lunge ahead for a few feet farther before falling again.
Then Clark saw him, a solitary figure staggering across the desert.
“Gibson!” Clark called.
Startled at hearing his name called, Gibson started to run.
Clark had been leading both horses, his and Gibson’s, and because the animals were now fairly well rested, he swung into the saddle, then started after Gibson, catching up with him within less than a minute.
“Gibson, come on,” he said. “You’re going to die in the desert unless you come back. Come on. I’ve got an extra canteen. I’ll give you a drink of water.”
“Why don’t I just take your canteen and horses?” Gibson said, his voice surprisingly strong. He pulled his gun, pointed it at Clark, and pulled the trigger.
“Gibson, no!” Clark shouted, but even as he called out, he heard the bullet buzz by his head. Clark had no choice but to draw his own pistol and shoot.
Gibson went down with a bullet hole in his forehead.
“Damn, why did you do that?” Clark asked in a puzzled voice. “You probably wouldn’t have gotten much over a year for what you did.”
With a sigh of frustration, Clark picked Gibson up, then laid him, belly-down, over his horse. Then, giving both animals another drink, he turned and started back.
The little town of Eberhardt, Nevada, lay just ahead of Emmett Clark, baking like a lizard under the sun. A heat-induced dust devil rose in front of him, then skittered across the road, causing sand to blow into his face and sting his cheeks. He was riding one horse and leading another, and he turned to check on Dewey Gibson, who was belly-down on the horse behind him.
He allowed himself to drink the final few swallows of one of the canteens, and even though the water was warm, it eased the thirst. Besides, he knew that now he was but a few minutes from a cool beer.
Dewey Gibson was only the second prisoner Clark had brought in since embarking upon his new career as a bounty hunter. He had killed the stagecoach robber, Corey Bates, during the actual stage holdup. It had not been his intention to kill Gibson, but Gibson had given him no choice. Gibson had fired first, and Clark had been forced to return fire to defend himself.
Clark hooked his canteen back onto the saddle pommel, then looked around at the little town he was entering. Nearly all the buildings were built from wide, unpainted, and weathered rip-sawed boards. Having collected the day’s heat, the town was now giving it back in shimmering waves that were so thick they distorted the view.
There was no railroad coming into Eberhardt, but there was a stagecoach station with a schedule board announcing the arrival and departure of four stagecoaches per week. He had known many towns like this: isolated, inbred, and stagnant.
Clark rode down the street taking inventory of the town’s commerce: a livery, a hardware store, a blacksmith shop, and a general store. The proprietor of the general store, wearing a white apron, was out front, sweeping the porch, the stiff straw broom making loud scratching noises. The scratching stopped as the grocer paused in his sweeping long enough to look at Clark, and to pay particular attention to the body Clark had draped over the horse behind him.
Clark located the hotel, a restaurant, and of more particular interest to him, the saloon. By now, others had come out to watch him, drawn by their morbid interest in the body on the horse behind him. At the far end of the single street, Clark saw the jail and marshal’s office.
Riding up to the hitching rail in front of the jail, Clark dismounted, and patted his shirt and pants a few times. The action sent up puffs of white dust, which hovered around him like a cloud. He cut a quick glance up and down the street, aware now that he was the center of intense interest. A few buildings away he saw a door being closed, while across the street, a window shade was drawn. A sign creaked in the wind, and flies buzzed loudly around the piles of horse manure that lay in the street.
Clark didn’t have to open the door of the jail; it was opened for him. Someone wearing a badge—whether the marshal or one of his deputies Clark didn’t know—stepped out onto the porch. The lawman was overweight and his shirt pulled at the buttons, gapping open in the middle. He stuck his hand inside his shirt and began to scratch.
“Find him dead on the trail, did you?”
“No,” Clark replied. “I killed him.”
The lawman got a surprised expression on his face and his eyes grew wide.
“Look here! Are you telling me you killed him, and you are bringing him into town to brag about it?”
“I didn’t come to brag, I come to collect my reward,” Clark said.
“What reward?”
Clark pulled a dodger from his pocket and showed it to the lawman.
WANTED
BY THE STATE OF NEVADA
Dewey Gibson
“This is Gibson,” Clark said.
“Yeah? You don’t mind if I take a look, do you?” the deputy asked.
“Do you know Gibson?”
“Yeah, I know him. We’ve had him in jail here two or three times.” The deputy stepped down from the porch and walked back to take a look at the body that was draped across the horse. He nodded. “That’s him, all right. What did you kill him for? I know he held up Mr. Fiddler’s store here, but as far as I know, Gibson never kilt nobody.”
“He was trying to kill me,” Clark said.
